The carpooling crew

Published 2:54 pm, Friday, July 5, 2013

Peet's coffee - the reward at the end of a hard row before carpooling back to San Francisco.

Peet's coffee - the reward at the end of a hard row before carpooling back to San Francisco.

Photo: Meredith May, San Francisco Chronicle

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Ryan Salma, Erika Roddy and Mag Donaldson peruse a New York Times Magazine article about a 7-minute workout while carpooling to rowing practice at 5:15 a.m.

Ryan Salma, Erika Roddy and Mag Donaldson peruse a New York Times Magazine article about a 7-minute workout while carpooling to rowing practice at 5:15 a.m.

Photo: Meredith May, San Francisco Chronicle

The carpooling crew

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My rowing team practices at 5:30 a.m., three mornings a week on Corte Madera Creek in Marin. (Because no one can claim they are busy at that hour, that's why.)

Annual club dues are expensive, but double to more than $3,000 if you factor in gas and Golden Gate Bridge tolls.

To save money, a group of us who live in the city meet at the foot of the bridge and carpool. Passengers buy drivers coffee at Peet's after practice.

While our carpool began for financial reasons, it has become so important we would still ride this way even if cars suddenly ran on air and the toll disappeared.

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We are a rolling confessional in the dark - an intergenerational group of five, the youngest in her 20s and the eldest in her 60s, with every decade in between represented. We have a unique mixture of wisdom and currency to attack all problems big and small, from which medical school Erika should choose, what stories I should write, to which prom dress we want, chosen from the catalog Kate brought to carpool from the school where she teaches.

Even the lone male carpooler, Ryan, who represents the 30s age group, picked out a fantasy prom dress, an off the shoulder chiffon number.

"I can totally do pink," he said.

He's also the only one who can belt all the words to, "It's Raining Men" during carpool sing-a-long.

After practice, we wait for each other in the boathouse and walk together to the car. On the way home, carpool is the place to deconstruct the row, and try to figure out why the boat flew, or struggled. We discuss slide ratio and water conditions and split times and boat run. It's the only place in our lives where we can fixate like this without losing an audience.

As the most senior member, Mag fought the battles to open sports to women that led to Title IX, which allows the younger carpoolers to live in a world where they've never had to sit on the sidelines.

She is the voice of reason when one of us doesn't make a boat lineup or loses a race, reminding us always that "it's just rowing," or that as we age, we need to remember to "meet rowing where we are."

One time, after a particularly frustrating practice, when the boats felt sluggish, the coach called an impromptu meeting after we put the oars away. He was not pleased.

"Someone tell me, why are you here?"

His point was clear - why get up before dawn and sacrifice sleep and comfort and sanity, if we are going to row against, rather than with each other?

Nobody spoke.

"Somebody! Why do you get up and do this sport?"

One rower gingerly raised her hand.

"Um. Carpool?"

Her answer was so wrong, yet so right, that all we could do was laugh at our failings. Even coach.

And with that, we drove with our reusable coffee mugs to Peet's. And bought a large, triple-shot decaf latte for Mag.

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